


S'Allons-Y

by AyuOhseki



Series: * You Find Friends In Strange Places. [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Puns, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 00:17:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16565921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AyuOhseki/pseuds/AyuOhseki
Summary: A three-year anniversary, one-shot sequel toStrange Places. "But Ayu, you're a day late!" Shhh. Spoilers for that story, and also in general, abound.Chara is having a bad brain day and has sentenced themself to a quiet night indoors to keep from ruining anyone else’s fun. When Sans shows up, maybe to keep them company, maybe because someone asked him to keep an eye on them, maybe just to be annoying, they end up asking something they’ve been wondering for a while now: what exactlywasGaster to him?





	S'Allons-Y

**Author's Note:**

> "Allons-y" is French for "let's go."

The rhythmic clack of knitting needles fills Toriel’s living room, though the only one to listen is Chara, the knitter making the noise, as they curl up on the sofa. It soothes them in the way the tick of the grandfather clock doesn’t, and maybe they should relocate to a room where they don’t have to hear it, but sometimes they like to punish themself for existing and today is one of those days. It makes a nice cognitive dissonance against the soothing knitting, in a push-and-pull of ‘you deserve this’ ‘no you don’t.’ If nothing else, they haven’t tried or even been tempted to stab themself or pick open a wound, and that’s a  _kind_ of progress.

A presence shadows at their back, accompanied by the faint stink of stale grease. Without looking up, Chara says, “If you’re looking for Toriel, she’s at the supermarket, unless she ran her other errands first. I dunno when she’ll be back, so you probably ought to text her or give her a call.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” says Sans, who sounds unperturbed by the fact that they knew it was him without looking. “Where’s your best friends-slash-life partners?”

“They’re out on a date.”

“Huh. Why aren’t you on that date with ‘em?”

Click click click-click-clack. “I dunno. I just wasn’t up to it today.”

“And they left you?” Sans asks, sounding dubious.

Chara smiles a little. “No. I had to insist they go out and have fun without me. You know that carnival that’s in town?”

“Oh yeah. Papyrus is nuts about it. Went with him the first day. He’s there now with Alphys. I hear it leaves town after today, though, right?”

“Right, and Ree and Frisk were really looking forward to going. I didn’t want to take that from them, just because I’m having a, a,” they wave a hand feebly, “a bad brain day.”

“How long’d it take you to convince ‘em to leave without you?”

“An hour and a half.”

Sans snorts and sets down, of all things, a make-up kit on the coffee table in front of the couch.  _Smells like acrylic,_ they think. Then he circles around Toriel’s new reading chair, which is at a right angle to the couch. Chara can thus see it all out of the corner of their eye. He hops up onto it and sprawls back; the chair reclines with him, despite not being a reclining chair. They chuckle faintly, but otherwise don’t look up from their project.

They do, however, ask, “You’re not leaving?”

“Nah, I just got comfortable.”

What a crock. Chara smiles anyway, if a little wan, and wonders if it was Frisk or Ree or both (realistically, probably both) who called him and asked him to keep them company while they were home alone.

“So, whatcha makin’?” Sans prompts.

Their hands still. They stare down at the knitted scrap of cloth and the ball of yarn dangling from it. “I dunno yet,” they reply. “I just started knitting. I’ll figure that out later.”

“You should make a trombone warmer. Very useful. Practically a household item,” Sans suggests.

This time, Chara laughs louder, and they feel a little better. “I’ll think about it,” they say, and resume knitting.

Sans doesn’t speak up this time, and they resume, feeling somewhat more at peace. Even the tick of the clock doesn’t bother them as much now. What were they so agitated about before...? Maybe they just didn’t want to go out into the crowd. They’ve been getting better at that, but — well, mental illness is just like that. Sometimes it flares for no reason at all.

Memories flare in the same way, too. Something that’s been lingering in the back of their mind shows its face, and Chara leans on the couch arm and stares at the ceiling.

“Sans? Can I ask you something personal?”

“You can  _ask_ .”

“What kind of relationship did you and Gaster have?”

In their peripheral vision, they see Sans turn to stare at them. “Uh. Wow,” he utters. “Where’d that come from, all of a sudden?”

“If you tell me, I’ll tell you.”

“Sheesh. You drive a hard bargain, pal.”

Silence follows.

At length, Chara says, “You’re not going to say, are you?”

“Ah, well... Some things are better left a mystery, you know?”

Chara looks over their shoulder at him. He’s staring into space, perpetual grin fixed like the north star.

That was a great pun. They should share it. They do. He laughs. But something’s missing.

Maybe they shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place.

It’s like their other self said; the only thing they’re good at is hurting people...

They shake their head. No. This is something Sans would want to know, they think. But they wanted to make sure. That’s why they asked in the first place.

“The reason I ask,” they continue, “is because the Player said some... interesting things about Gaster. Interesting, but weird, and kind of creepy. I was wondering if you remembered much of him before what happened to him happened.”

Sans stares at them again, this time in open surprise. “Huh,” they utter. “Didn’t figure you’d bring up the Player on your own.”

They shrug and avert their gaze. “It’s true I don’t like thinking about her.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he stretches out. “Hmm... It’s hard to say. I’m not really the type to talk about myself, you know...? I guess we had a good relationship. A good, fatherly, sonly, normal kinda relationship. Plus, I mean, I tried all this time to bring him back. Or at least I did for a while, but the giving up part’s got nothin’ to do with Gaster and me.” He winks their way. “What kinda  _numbskull_ would do that for someone they didn’t like, huh?”

Chara thinks of all the times they’ve talked to Sans about Gaster. Not that that was a lot in and of itself, in all fairness, but they’re pretty sure they can count on one hand the times Sans referred to him as his father.

“Why do you call him ‘Gaster’ when Papyrus calls him ‘Dad’?” Chara wonders.

Sans doesn’t blink. He does, however, look to one side. His smile is as immovable as stone. “Wow,” he utters. “You, uh. You really haven’t lost that  _killer_ instinct, huh? You know just how to bury one right between the  _ribs_ .”

Their vision blurs. Ah. Yeah. That makes sense. “Sorry,” they mumble, turning their head away. “Never mind.”

“...Are you crying?”

“No,” they murmur as they wipe their eyes.

“Shoot.”

For a second, they’re tempted to point a finger at him and say  _Bang_ , but they reel it in.

Sans clears his throat, somehow. “Sorry,” he says. “I was tryin’ to keep it  _light_ there. Guess that wasn’t too  _brilliant_ of me.” When they don’t laugh, he rubs his skull, looking away. “Yeah... yeah, you kinda hit a bull’s-eye there. It’s complicated. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Sorry,” they murmur. “Topic dropped.”

The quiet this time lasts several minutes. It’s agonizing in its awkwardness, but at least Chara has something to do, and there’s nothing like knitting a sweater, or maybe a scarf, or maybe an over-glove with which to punch themself in the face, to calm their nerves.

“Actually,” Sans speaks up. “What’d the Player say about Gaster? I’m, uh. I’m curious.”

Chara’s hands still. “It’ll probably just hurt you all over again.”

“Ehhn, I can be kind of a masochist sometimes. Hit me.”

They laugh, and after a second, so does he. Sometimes the best puns are the ones you didn’t mean to make.

“Okay. I’m just going to tell you,” they say. “She said that the Gaster we met — the one all the monsters collectively decided on as their guardian angel or whatever — isn’t the real Gaster, and nobody knows who or where or what he really is, because nobody knows what he’s actually supposed to be like.”

Sans’s sockets blank out. “...”

“Supposedly, this version is just a possibility,” they continue. “One she called forth herself. And it’s possible one day we’ll find out about the real Gaster, but until then...” They shrug haplessly. “I’m not sure if she was even telling the truth, and I assume at least  _you_ would be able to tell the difference, so... take it with a grain of salt.”

“Chara,” Sans says. Something about his voice is odd. “Why did you tell me this?”

“...I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yeah. Yeah. ...You’re right. I did ask.” He rubs his scalp. “Sorry. It’s just... one of those things.” He stares out the window. “...Not the real Gaster... huh.” He chuckles. It sounds bleak. “I guess that figures. I can’t tell for sure when a timeline’s been reset, or when one of you time traveling kids hopped back a few jumps. But I’d have a pretty good idea of when it’d happen, because my memories would get a little scratchier compared to before. I know; I took notes.”

Chara looks back over at him.

“But... notes aren’t the same as feelings,” Sans continues. “And wouldn’t you know, someone who doesn’t like  _talking_ about ‘em doesn’t like writing ‘em down, either. So... there’s a lot of bits that seem out of place, or like they don’t fit, or like... did that really happen? Or was it all in my head?” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Guess that doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“...It makes more sense than you might think.”

“Papyrus, by comparison, is a lot better at taking things as they come. He’s more, uh. What’s the word. Accepting? Open-minded?”

It feels abrupt and out of left field to Chara for Sans to bring Papyrus up now, so they assume he’s working up to a point.  “Really?”  they thus say. “He always struck me as, uh...”  _Desperate_ , their first thought, sounds like an insult. “Yearning,” they conclude carefully. “He wants to be popular so badly.”

“Eehhh, that’s not the same thing. Actually, it’s sort of the opposite? It’s, uh.” He pauses. “Eugh. This is why I hate talking about this kinda nonsense. It never comes out right.

“Look, it’s like this. When things are going well, or at least acceptably, Papyrus will go with whatever and do it with a smile. But when they’re not, he never gives up trying to make it into the better world he’s certain it can be. There’s this sort of resolute.  _Certainty_ ? That even if things are bad now, they’ll be better tomorrow, and he just has to push and push and push until it gets that way.”

“That doesn’t sound very accepting or open-minded.”

“Words words words,” Sans says flippantly. “The point is, he’s a good person.” He pauses. “Much better than me.”

“Than you?”

“Right. I’m just a cynical  screw -up.”

“A cynical screw-up, huh.” Chara huffs a breath of a laugh, smiling. _Something we have in common,_ they think, but don’t dare to say because if Sans were to make another crack about a knife between the ribs and not actually be joking about it, they’re not sure they could manage to continue the conversation. Instead, because his point has not yet made itself apparent, they say, “I’m not sure what all that has to do with Gaster, though?”

Sans scratches his scalp. “Actually, me neither. Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. Who knows anymore?”

“...Sorry.”

“Nah. This one’s not your fault, kiddo. You’re just the messenger.” He leans back in Toriel’s seat and falls silent.

So Chara does too. They time their knitting to the seconds of the clock to create a rhythm. It works surprisingly well. Soon they’re lost in that rhythm, weaving threads together towards an unknowable end product. Maybe they’ll make Asgore another sweater. They’re worried about him being alone most of the time. It took Toriel forever to agree to joint custody of Asriel, and she still won’t let them or Frisk spend time with Asgore unsupervised. Maybe one reaps what one sows, but Chara thinks Toriel’s being a little _too_ protective. They appreciate the sentiment—it’s better than a guardian who won’t protect them at all—but at the very least, Asgore didn’t attack and kill human kids for the fun of it. In their opinion, Chara’s done worse. If she could forgive _them_ , she could at least cut _him_ a little break.

But maybe that’s the kindness in their patchwork SOUL speaking. Some things, some people, you just can’t forgive, no matter what. Chara knows that well. Maybe Asgore’s something like Toriel’s Player. Not exactly a 1:1 comparison, but when they think of it like that… yeah. Actually, they get it.

With a little sigh, they set down their knitting project on the coffee table and lean their head on the back of the couch. Words words words. They roll their head over to look at Sans, who’s still staring at the ceiling. Disjointed memories… Papyrus being more accepting… a strained relationship with his father… uncertainty if what he remembers is real or not… There’s not much that Chara can say. But there’s one thing they can think of that might be acceptable:

“You okay?”

“Hm?” Sans’s eyelights flick towards them. “Oh. Yeah. Just peachy.”

“...You really don’t need to lie to  _me_ , you know.”

“Hunh. I guess not.” They flick back up. “At the same time, I’m not about to turn a pipsqueak like you into my therapist or whatever.”

“I guess that’s fair.” It’s not like they can actually…  _help_ with his problems. Even listening might be a burden, though it’s hard to say for whom. Chara looks at the coffee table. “By the way. When were you planning on explaining the gag with the make-up kit?”

“Oh yeah.” Sans actually sits up at that. “Actually, I started a new part-time job. You’d be surprised how many monsters are fascinated by cosmetics.”

“That  _is_ surprising. So you decided to get in on it?”

“Yup. I barely have to do a thing and they all come running. That’s why I call my business...” His eyes crinkle. “S’Allons-Y.”

Chara snerks, then bursts out laughing. “Were you waiting this entire time for me to ask about it, just so you could make that joke?!”

Sans pulls something out of his hoodie pocket and tosses it at them. They catch it and look down at a bottle of herbs as he retorts, “Says the kid with nothing but  _thyme_ .”

They chuck it back, laughing again. He catches it, chuckling too. Funny. Nothing’s really changed, but  the more the two of them talk, the better they feel,  until now they’re actually feeling something like cheerful . But then, isn’t that about how it always goes? It’s not as though the mental illness is gone. They’re just better able to deal with it right now.

“So what’ve you got?” they ask, opening the kit up. They pause, then peer into the contents. “…Are these  _all_ free samples?”

“They were free for  _me_ ,” Sans replies. “For you, they’re five bucks a piece. Very special, low low price, one time only, get ‘em while they last.”

“That’s robbery!!”

“No, it’s extortion. Ten bucks a piece.”

“You’re right. That  _is_ extortion.” Chara spots the brightest red nail polish in the kit and takes it. “ _This_ is robbery.”

“Oh no. Help. Stop, thief,” Sans says without getting up or even reaching out from Chairiel Extend: Conchairium Shift. “That’s my most popular color, too.”

They waggle it next to their red eyes and flash their broadest, creepiest grin. “That’s ‘cuz everyone knows you’re either red or dead! Now hold out your hands.”

“Uh. Why?”

They set down the nail polish and grab one more of each major color, plus black, white, and pink. “’Cuz I’m gonna paint your nails. Bones. Nailbones.”

“Oh, gee, well when you put it like  _that_ , how can I possibly say no?” he asks, again without moving.

“It’ll be great advertising,” they add. “And also, technically, free.”

“Hmm. You run a hard bargain, kiddo.”

“I’m very persuasive when I want to be! Now stick ‘em out.” They pause. They squint, lips curdling. “...Those are your  _feet_ , Sans.”

“So? You can paint those too, right?”

“I’m not touching your rank feetbones, Sans!!”

“Technically,  _you’re_ not touching them, the polish brush is.”

“It won’t for long after it melts from contact with a bio-hazard!”

“Hey, now, that hurts my feelings.”

“Does it hurt more or less than the constant acid sizzling on your toes?”

“It hurts about as much as your back-sass, which even without rank foot goop is bad enough to strip the skin off my bones.”

They crack up. Once they settle, they stop to consider. “...You really don’t want to?”

Sans stops to consider, too. “...Tell you what. I’ll let you paint my nails if you let me paint yours. Looks great on monsters  _and_ humans: double the advertising.”

Chara recoils by instinct, hands retreating into the depths of their sweater sleeves. “Mine? Uh, I dunno…”

“Too gendered?” he suggests. He holds up and wiggles his fingerbones. “Don’t wanna get a manly rainbow with me?”

They snort, relaxing, and smile. They even mean it. “Nah, actually, a rainbow sounds like a great accent for my horrible, horrible magic-meat sludge popsicle body. Let’s do it.”

And so the two of them take turns painting each other’s nails, or in Sans’s case the tops of his distal phalanxes. Black, violet, blue, cyan, green on the left, then yellow, orange, red, pink, white on the right. When they’re done and dried, Sans even suggests they kick it up a notch with the sparkle nail polish topper. The sparkle is sure to enthrall Frisk and Ree, so Chara readily agrees. Plus, they must admit: it looks _fabulous_. Mettaton would approve. Maybe next they’ll color their toes lavender, white, and chartreuse.

As Sans is painting their nails with the final layer, his own already brilliantly glittery, he remarks, “Me and Papyrus were both on his team, actually.”

Chara blinks. “What?”

“The royal research team. Over in Hotland. You know, Gaster’s,” Sans concludes, scrutinizing their nails as if they were bacteria samples under a microscope. “Papyrus designed the puzzles in the Core, did you know that?”

“I  _didn’t_ know that,” they admit, startled. They pause, memories of first-timeline phone calls clicking into place. “I thought he thought the Core puzzles were a hack job or whatever?”

“Yeah, funny, huh? He doesn’t even remember designing them anymore. But he always hated Hotland. Says it makes him sweat. So maybe his dislike is instinctual.” He winks. “You know, baked into his bones.”

They groan and roll their eyes, even though that actually was a good one. “What about Alphys?” they challenge. “I’m pretty sure  _she_ made all that crap.”

“Yup, that’s how it gets remembered. ’s’not wrong, though. She was on the team, too. Gaster’s prot é g é e. Him, her, me, and Papyrus all worked on the Core. And a bunch of other talented monsters, but us three were on top… or jockeying for the top, anyway. A little awkward when your main rivals are your kid brother and your at-the-time best friend.”

“At the time?”

“Yeah. We’ve drifted apart some since then, for obvious reasons. We still hang out, but the highly coveted position of Sans’s Best Friend goes to Tori, now.”

“So you and Alphys aren’t friends anymore?”

“Hey, I didn’t say  _that_ much,” he protests. “Don’t get me wrong, I love her like a sister. But, uh. That’s the exact same reason why it’s hard to be around her sometimes.”

They nod slowly. That makes sense. No matter how dear someone is to you, sometimes just being around them can bring back bad memories. They dig their nails into their sweater, just over their heart.

“So anyway, that’s how it was. We all worked on all sorts of junk together, each of us playing to our own strengths. Great honor. Great honor.” Sans pulls back the nailbrush and studies Chara’s right hand, cupped in his left. “Lots of opportunities for jealousy and resentment.”

“...And that’s where the rivalry you mentioned comes in.”

“It’s even worse when it’s good people,” he replies conversationally. “People you love, respect, and admire. But, hey, Gaster was the Royal Scientist. He didn’t really have a lot of time to be a father. Not sure he knew how. But he knew how to be a researcher, and he was plenty happy to encourage us to do our best at expanding the boundaries of science. If, purely for example, an oldest son who used to have his dad all for himself and now had to share him with an entire crew could only get attention anymore by sciencing it up hardcore, well. You can understand if he’d start to get a bit competitive, right?”

Chara recalls a passage in a child psychology book they read once that stated that  _neglect is a form of abuse_ , and keeps their mouth shut.

“Which might, in circumstances where said father comes up with a radical and dangerous idea that his kid brother and then-best friend balk at, lead that oldest son to egg it on, even at the cost of, you know. Proper safety measures. It might lead him to push hard and fast on the experiments for the sake of getting results and praise both. Maybe too hard, maybe too fast. Maybe it might lead him to get sloppy and bull-headed, and encourage his father to do the same, because enabling this project makes him the apple of his dad’s eye.” He pauses. “Maybe it leads to an accident. Maybe it leads to everything going wrong.  _Everything_ everything, way beyond the scope of a dumb kid’s personal hang-ups. Maybe it leads to him trying desperately to fix his mistakes. But.  Maybe some mistakes are impossible to fix.”

They bow their head, thinking of cups of butter and buttercups.

“So maybe eventually he gives up. Decides to cut his losses, accept what he’s still got while he's still got it,” Sans continues, re-dipping the nailbrush in the glitter paint. “But maybe that’s also for the best. Everything worked out all right in the end, didn’t it? Didn’t even have to do much beyond hang out and watch. Maybe give a helping hand from time to time. You know how it is.”

They look up at him, lips pursed. They  _do_ know how it is. For that reason, Chara mulls over his implied story for a long, silent while as their nails dry.

Then they murmur, “How much of that was true?”

“None of it,” he shoots back, winking. “Or maybe all of it. Who knows anymore?”

At first, they don’t respond. Then a snort bursts out of their nose, and they chuckle.

“What’s up?” Sans asks.

They admire their glitter-rainbow painted nails. Then they  suck in a deep breath and turn them around to show them off to him. “We match.”

He blinks, eternal smile dimming a fraction. Then he peers at his own fingers… “Huh.” ...chuckles too… “How about that.” ...and shows them off  in return , eyes crinkling with mirth and something else. “We do.”

Once again, the two laugh together. But, somehow, there’s a different quality to it now.

Smells like a true bond.

“Hey, Sans—” Chara leans forward eagerly. “When those four get back, you wanna play a sweet prank on ‘em?”

Sans’s grin broadens. “Chara, you  _know_ I do.”

As the two launch into discussion and preparations, in a corner of the room, a shadow no one can see continues to watch over them with a smile both faint and fond.


End file.
